


Defining Beauty

by Dach



Series: Fëanorian Week 2k17 [4]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Appearence, Beauty - Freeform, Feanorian week, Gen, Introspectivity, Social Constructs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-09 22:43:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10423455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dach/pseuds/Dach
Summary: Beauty is an ideal that Caranthir has never quite understood.





	

Celegorm was the beautiful one. Caranthir’s siblings said it. The elves of Túna said it. Fëanor said it- Eru, Fëanor named him after that trait. And yet, Celegorm himself never did. He had once told Caranthir that, while he understood the ideals of the others, he had never quite comprehended the appeal. Of course, Caranthir doubted that his normally so uppity older brother had even recalled admitting it; the blonde had consumed a fair bit of Dorwinion and was rather intoxicated, at the time. Caranthir found it very likely that he had been made privy to a secret, knowledge that even Celegorm wasn’t sure about. Now, when his brother received compliments, he could see the subtle flash of confusion that flickered over Celegorm’s expression before it was replaced with a uncaring smirk.

Beauty was a strange ideal, and a conditional one. The lips of Celegorm, the ones that an awestruck suitor had once saw fit to compose a sonnet in honor of, were identical to Maëdhros’s, yet upon his face they had once been insulted for seeming unfit in comparison to his other features. His strong jawline was shared by Maglor and Caranthir himself, although none seemed to notice it. His blue eyes were identical to the Curufin’s. His fair complexion was the same color as his father’s face. But Celegorm was beautiful? It must be the exact combination of such attributes, Caranthir decided. None of his features “clashed”, and nothing seemed to really stand out.

Boring.

Not notable.

Overlooked perfection in ideal synonymy.

And yet, the poets, the songwriters, and the muses all referred to beauty as something eyecatching. How could it draw eyes when the apparent definition was that it didn’t? It was some kind of ironic, twisted logic, Caranthir surmised. The definition that he had devised seemed to fit all that he had observed: Maëdhros was admired, but not to the extent of Maglor, simply because the redhead’s nose and mouth were of seeming discord. But didn’t the twins share the same nose? None called it out when it was on their faces, for it appeared to fit with their thinner lips.

Blank.

Minimal.

Dull.

A ridiculous social construct.

That was the ideal of beauty. Something unnaturally perfect to the extent that the very visage appeared as if the different pieces had been wrought of wood and sanded until they could be defined as nothing other than the piece’s name. A beautiful nose was not long, or thin, or long, or short, or straight, or crooked; it was a nose.

But then again, Caranthir mused, didn’t that stand directly in opposition to all that the singers sung of? Beauty was supposed to stand out. Did that mean that an orc in a city of elves would be beautiful? No, Caranthir realized, beauty is supposed to be an amalgamation of features in a way pleasing to the eye. No elf- or likely Vala- could argue that an orc’s appearance was such a thing.  
And so his thought process looped.

Eventually, he broke from the pattern with a chuckle of realization.  
Caranthir’s complexion was a flushing red more often than not, mostly due to the exasperation and anger that welled up inside of him far too quickly. His jawline might be identical to Celegorm’s, but his mouth wasn’t. His lips weren’t plump, and unlike how Celegorm’s always seemed to be parted just a hair, Caranthir’s lips were constantly pressed together- in anger, normally- into a thin, bow-shaped mouth. His eyebrows were heavy and straight to a sense of artificialism. They drew together as if in constant frustration. His nose was straight and thin. His eyes weren’t warm brown like Maëdhros’s and the twins’, nor were they clear blue like Curufin’s and Celegorm’s. No. Caranthir eyes were a murky mix of gray and green that always seemed to hide a speck of angry amber. They were pools of muddy clay. His hair was darker than all of his brothers’,  smooth, straight, slick ebony that fell like frustrating water and made his jaw appear broader than it was.

His face was like a jumble of shredded paintings.

Caranthir stood out.

And so, if he was to define by the definition of the social construct presented, instead of by the one that was unfortunately true, he was beautiful.

Caranthir laughed aloud.

“I’m beautiful,” he grinned, before lapsing into another bout of laughter.


End file.
